The Roads We Walk
by Irene Moriarty xx
Summary: Welcome to the Final Problem. It's an alternate AU where Eurus isn't able to prevent Sherlock's self-sacrifice as he shoots himself. He may have saved John and Mycroft, but at what cost? Aftermath of the incident told through John's, Molly's, and Mycroft's eyes. Work-in-progress, please review. Thanks!
1. What?

"What happened?"

John opened his mouth as if to speak, but a choked sob came out instead. He closed it and shook his head, face buried in his hands.

"I know this is hard for you." Lestrade reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. "But we need the statement. Tell me what happened." He pressed firmly, yet not unkindly.

"I'm sorry, I can't." John whispered quietly. "I don't...Lestrade, I don't remember what happened."

"It's okay, you're probably still in shock." Lestrade replied, sadness in his voice.

John shook his head again, more insistently this time. "No, it's not that, Detective Inspector. I mean, I literally don't remember what happened after Mycroft and I walked in the room."

"According to Mycroft, his sister told Sherlock to shoot either him or you. Is this correct?" Lestrade asked gently.

John looked up, a blank look in his eyes. "Who's Sherlock?"


	2. Not on My Watch

**Twenty Four Hours Earlier**

 _Smash!_

It wasn't fair. It just wasn't fair.

 _Smash!_

The silver lining of the coffin stuck to his hand as he reared back for another hit. His entire life, always hiding behind a wall of impassiveness, building it up brick by brick, each one making him feel more numb than the last.

 _Smash!_

It was not prudent to dwell on emotions. They are the crack in the lens, the fly in the ointment, the virus in the data.

 _Smash!_

He thought he had succeeded. He thought he had finally rid himself of the burden lesser minds called sentiment. He thought he was immune to the weaknesses of his transport.

He was wrong.

The great Sherlock Holmes was wrong.

And it had only taken three words, three simple, ordinary dumb words, to destroy him.

Sherlock slumped down on the cold metal floor, gun in front of him, his throat still tingling from his anguished scream. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted his elder brother, staring down at him with an unreadable expression on his face. It wasn't like Mycroft Holmes to display his thoughts on his face, but Sherlock thought he saw a look of pity etched across his visage.

No. He did not want to be pitied. He had to get up. He had to keep going. If not for himself, for the little girl on the plane, trapped high in the air.

"Sherlock, I know this is torture for you," John's footsteps sounded closer. Sherlock stared at the black shoes in front of him, "but you have got to keep it together."

"This isn't torture, this is vivisection," Sherlock snapped, his racing heart doing little to slow down, "We're experiencing science from the perspective of lab rats." There was a moment of silence, and he regretted his sudden outburst. He took a deep breath.

"Soldiers." John extended his hand and Sherlock took it, grateful to have someone supporting him as he stood up. His legs were still shaking and his head was still pounding, but he made his way to the next room.

"Hey sis, I don't mean to complain, but this one's empty," Sherlock quipped, seething. The hollowness earlier seemed to have been filled with something else: a fiery anger. It didn't feel any better, but at least it cleared his head, if only by a little bit. "What happened, run out of ideas?"

"It's not empty, Sherlock. You've still got the gun, haven't you? I told you you'd need it, because only two can play the next game. Just two of you go on from here; your choice. It's make-your-mind-up time," Eurus's cold voice issued through the speakers. "Whose help do you need the most – John or Mycroft? It's an elimination round. You choose one and kill the other. You have to choose family or friend. Mycroft or John Watson?"

With a click, her face was replaced by Moriarty's. The white lights turned red. _Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick..._ Moriarty hissed, the sounds slithering throughout the room like a cage of snakes.

"Eurus, enough!" Mycroft yelled, jerking Sherlock back to reality.

"Not yet, I think," Moriarty's face disappeared, Eurus back on the screen. "But nearly. Remember, there's a plane in the sky, and it's not going to land."

"Well?" Mycroft demanded.

Sherlock looked up at him. "Well, what?"

"We're not actually going to discuss this, are we? I'm sorry, Doctor Watson. You're a fine man in many respects. Make your goodbyes and shoot him." Sherlock glanced uncertainly at John. "Shoot him!" Mycroft said sharply.

"What?" John stepped up, confusion and hurt on his face.

"Shoot Doctor Watson. There's no question who has to continue from here. It's us; you and me," Mycroft continued. "Whatever lies ahead requires brainpower, Sherlock, not sentiment. Don't prolong his agony; shoot him."

"Do I get a say in this?" John protested.

Mycroft turned towards him. "Today, we are soldiers. Soldiers die for their country. I regret, Doctor Watson, that privilege is now yours."

John looked once at Mycroft, then back to Sherlock. He stood up straighter, realization dawning on his face. "Shit. He's right. He is, in fact, right."

"Make it swift. No need to prolong his agony. Get it over with," Mycroft instructed, "and we can get to work."

Sherlock looked helplessly at John. Logically, Mycroft was right. It was just the two of them that had to continue on. But John...

Though Sherlock had never outwardly showed it, he cared deeply for him. John had always been there for him no matter what Sherlock did. Despite grieving his fake death for two years and watching his wife die to save Sherlock, John had never left his side. Sherlock couldn't kill him. He couldn't kill his best friend.

Mycroft scoffed. "God! I should have expected this. Pathetic. You always were the slow one, the idiot. That's why I've always despised you. You shame us all. You shame the family name. Now, for once in your life, do the right thing." Mycroft tilted his head towards John, his smile gone. "Put this stupid little man out of all our misery. Shoot him."

"Stop it." Sherlock murmured quietly.

"Look at him. What is he? Nothing more than a distraction; a little scrap of ordinariness for you to impress, to dazzle with your cleverness. You'll find another."

"Please, for God's sake, just stop it."

"Why?"

Sherlock finally knew what Mycroft was trying to do. And it upset him, almost even worse than shooting John. In his final moments, his brother was trying to make it easier for Sherlock to kill him by insulting his best friend.

Sherlock sighed and swallowed hard. "Because, on balance, even your Lady Bracknell was more convincing." Sherlock turned his head towards John, his voice low. "Ignore everything he just said. He's being kind. He's trying to make it easy for me to kill him." He turned back around to face Mycroft, who had a rueful smile on his lips. "Which is why this is going to be so much harder."

His arm seemed to move of it's own accord, swinging the gun up and directing it at his brother's face. His fingers were white gripping the heavy object, yet his hand still shook.

"You said you liked my Lady Bracknell."

"Sherlock. Don't." John whispered, looking frantically at him, shaking his head.

"It's not your decision, Doctor Watson." Mycroft replied softly, his mouth still twisted in that horrible, grim smile. "Not in the face, though, please. I've promised my brain to the Royal Society."

"Where would you suggest?" Sherlock inquired, unsuccessfully trying to keep the flurry of emotions out of his voice.

"Well ..." Mycroft straightened up, unbuttoning the first button of his shirt and adjusting his tie. "I suppose there is a heart somewhere inside me. I don't imagine it's much of a target but ...why don't we try for that?"

Sherlock let out a humorless chuckle, as John took a step closer to the two of them. "I won't allow this."

Mycroft gave a small shake of his head. "This is my fault. Moriarty."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed in interest. "Moriarty?"

"Her Christmas treat: five minutes' conversation with Jim Moriarty five years ago."

"What did they discuss?"

"Five minutes' conversation..."

Sherlock already knew what Mycroft was going to say next.

"...unsupervised."

Sherlock steadied the pistol, with an expression of clear anguish. "Goodbye, brother mine. No flowers...my request."

"Jim Moriarty thought you'd make this choice," Eurus piped up. They had almost forgotten she was there. "He was so excited."

"And here we are, at the end of the line. Holmes killing Holmes." Moriarty was back, a tone of excitement in his words. "This is where I get off."

"Five minutes."

Sherlock spoke up. His finger slid onto the trigger. He tried desperately not to feel, not to even think about what he was going to do next.

"It took her just five minutes to do all of this to us."

This was it. They had lost, Eurus had won. Sherlock was about to murder his only brother, the man who had always looked out for him, always protected him, always dragging him out of whatever crack den Sherlock found himself in. And now Sherlock was going to kill him.

There was no other option. John and Mycroft were the only two people in the room. And he had to kill one of them.

But did he?

Sherlock caught sight of himself in the reflection of the gun. Something seemed to fall in place.

 _They're not the only two people in the room,_ his subconscious whispered. _You are too. You have the gun. You are in control. What are you going to do?_

 _It's not chance, Mr. Holmes._ The voice of Jefferson Hope floated back to him. _It's chess. Chess with one move._

And suddenly, everything became very clear to him. He lowered the gun.

"Well, not on my watch." Sherlock's voice was tight, barely audible, but seemed deafeningly loud as it shattered the ominous silence.

"What are you doing?" Eurus asked, a hint of urgency in her voice.

Sherlock turned to face John and Mycroft. His hands no longer shook, his mind no longer muddled.

"A moment ago, a brave man asked to be remembered."

Sherlock pressed the cold muzzle of the gun underneath his chin. Mycroft, horrified, took a step closer, as if to stop him.

"I'm remembering the governor."


	3. Goodbye

"Ten."

"No, no, Sherlock!" Eurus exclaimed, alarmed.

"Nine."

 _I can win._

"Eight."

 _I can do this._

"Sherlock, you can't!"

"Seven."

"You don't know about Redbeard yet!"

"Six."

"Sherlock!"

"Five."

"Sherlock, stop that at once!" Eurus sounded like a small child, scolding a disobedient puppy.

"Four."

 _You didn't win, Eurus. You lost._

"Three."

"Brother, please!"

"Two."

 _I'm sorry._

"One."

 _Goodbye._

Sherlock Holmes closed his eyes for the last time.

 _Inhale._

 _Exhale._

He pulled the trigger.


	4. It's Not the Fall

Everything slowed down. John was rooted to the spot, unable to move, as his best friend toppled, almost gracefully, to the floor. Sherlock's curly hair bounced up and down, his face calm and serene like it had always been. The gun fell with a clatter, and that seemed to jolt out John out of his stunned paralysis.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft ran forward, kneeling in the pool of blood quickly forming behind Sherlock's head. "Sherlock, no, no..."

The Iceman had shattered. Mycroft shook Sherlock vigorously as two drops of water rolled down his cheeks. John wasn't sure what surprised him more, seeing Sherlock shoot himself or Mycroft crying.

 _Sherlock's not dead._ John thought.

"It's a magic trick, it's just a magic trick." He said aloud, his voice cracking. Sherlock still lay lifeless on the ground, but John knew it wasn't true. He would come pop up any moment, explaining how he survived with a small, arrogant smile on his face..

"It's a magic trick..." John repeated, and this time he looked at Mycroft, who was still hugging Sherlock. _Why is he doing that?_ John asked, confused. _Sherlock's not dead. He's not dead._

The TV screen with Eurus's face on it had gone white, but John hadn't noticed. There was just him and Sherlock and Mycroft, all huddled together in the dark room.

And suddenly John was Sherlock, standing at the top of Bart's Hospital. He looked down, and saw himself, standing outside a cab.

 _Is this real?_ John wondered. Everything was perfect, down to the last detail. He was experiencing the Fall through Sherlock's eyes.

"You want to know how I did it?" Sherlock spoke up from behind him, his rich baritone ringing through the air. "I'll tell you. All you have to do is jump."

Jump. Yes, jump. It was very easy.

 _Between you and me John, I always survive the fall._

John spread out his arms and tilted his body forward, and suddenly he was rising up and up.

"What is this?" John exclaimed, flying high into the clouds.

"It's not the fall that kills you, John." Sherlock shouted from down below, his coat flapping in the wind. "It's the landing!"

Then the scene dissolved and John was back in the dungeon. He swayed on the spot, the ground coming faster and faster towards him.

 _He's not dead_ , was his last thought before he passed out.


	5. Forgotten

White lights blossomed overhead, and a machine next to the bed beeped steadily. John groggily opened his eyes, and tried to sit up.

"How are you?" A face above him slowly came into focus. Anderson.

"Bit of a lump." John said, rubbing the back of his head. It was the same thing he had said when Sherlock...

No, he mustn't think of Sherlock. Why was it that every time John thought of him he felt sad?

"Where's...Mycroft? How is he?" John asked, pushing Sherlock from his mind. "What happened? How did I get here?"

"We found you three in Sherrinford, after receiving a distress call from Mycroft. You passed out."

"Two, you mean." John corrected him.

"Sorry?" Anderson asked, surprised.

"You found us two in Sherrinford. There was just Mycroft and I." John clarified. Sherlock never entered the room. Sherlock wasn't there.

"No, we found you, Mycroft, and Sherlock in there." Anderson repeated, frowning.

John shook his head. Why didn't they get it? Sherlock wasn't dead because Sherlock was never at Sherrinford.

But if he wasn't at Sherrinford, where was he?

Who was he thinking about again? Everything was all muddled. Why was he so upset?

"I don't think I understand." John muttered quietly, more to himself than to Anderson.

"You've just gone through a trauma, and may have suffered a mild concussion. Get some rest, it'll all be clearer in the morning." Anderson reassured him, pushing him down on the pillow. He turned and left as John drifted off to sleep.

ooOoo

"Are you ready?" Donovan asked, looking concerned for the first time in her life. John frowned, she had always despised him, and now she was worried about him. It was all very confusing.

John swallowed and nodded. What's-His-Name Lestrade came out and led him into an interrogation room.

"So, John." Lestrade put his hands on the table as Donovan closed the door. "What happened?"

Nothing happened. Something happened, but John wasn't sure what it was.

"I know this is hard for you." Lestrade touched him on the shoulder. "But we need the statement. Tell me what happened."

"I'm sorry, I can't." John answered quietly. "I don't...Lestrade, I don't remember what happened."

"It's okay, you're probably still in shock."

He wasn't in shock. He just didn't remember. "No, it's not that, Detective Inspector. I mean, I literally don't remember what happened after Mycroft and I walked in the room."

"According to Mycroft, his sister told Sherlock to shoot either him or you. Is this correct?" Lestrade asked gently.

"Who's Sherlock?" John shook his head.

Lestrade chuckled. "Sherlock! You know, Sherlock!"

John blinked a few times. "No, I really don't know."

He stopped smiling, a concerned look on his face. "Your flatmate? Your colleague? Your best _friend_?"

"I live by myself." John stated blandly. "I work with Molly Hooper at Barts. I'm a doctor. And my best friend is Mike Stamford."

There was an unreadable expression on Lestrade's face. "I think we're all done for today. I've got everything I need. Thank you." John abruptly stood up and walked off.

"He doesn't remember Sherlock." Lestrade muttered to himself, gathering his papers. "John Watson doesn't know who his best friend was."

 **Author Note:**

 **Wow! Really took a lot of turns and twists there. I realize this may be a bit confusing for some of you, so let me summarize. Essentially what happened in the past few chapters was that with the help of denial and a concussion, John was able to rewrite Sherlock completely out of his memories to protect himself from the trauma of the truth. I honestly have no idea where this story is going to go, so I think I'll write up a couple more chapters and see where the plot takes me. I hope you guys have as much fun reading it as I do writing it!**

 **-Irene xx**


	6. Because He Loved You

"John!" John looked up as the door creaked, opening to reveal Mrs. Hudson carrying a small, chubby baby.

"Mrs. Hudson! Rosie!" John smiled. He sat up and took his daughter from Mrs. Hudson's arms. She cooed happily and grabbed's John's thumb with her tiny fingers. Mrs. Hudson dragged up a chair and sat down.

"I've only just heard," she started. "John, I am so, so sorry."

They kept saying that to him. Why were they sorry? Did something bad happen?

"Er..." John wasn't sure how to respond. "Huh?"

"I know it's not like last time," Mrs. Hudson continued, dabbing at her eyes. "But sometimes I find myself making a cuppa, thinking Sherlock'll come home. I just can't believe..." She sniffled and shook her head, evidently unable to continue.

John couldn't bear it anymore. He had to ask.

"Who is this Sherlock everyone keeps talking about?" As he said it, a pang of guilt ran through his body, yet he wasn't sure why.

Mrs. Hudson blinked a couple times, looking confused. "What do you mean, who's Sherlock?" She attempted to laugh, as if he had said something funny, but started crying instead.

"People say he's my best friend and my flatmate." John replied. "But I don't know who he is! I've lived by myself for as long as I can remember, and my best friend is Mike Stamford. You...you offered me the flat at a lower price..." John shook his head. "I can't remember why. But I've been working with Molly Hooper at Barts since then, I'm a doctor."

When he finished, he looked up to see Mrs. Hudson horrified. Something—many things about what he had just said sounded so wrong, like when you use a word too many times and it starts to feel awkward. And yet he found himself desperately clinging to the statement, as if it were a lifeline.

Mrs. Hudson gaped. "Oh dear..."

"What?" John asked, now slightly annoyed.

"I think you need to come with me."

ooOoo

 _221B Baker Street_

John read the nameplate a couple times. The door was black, relatively good condition, except for a small chip near the door handle. The knocker was also crooked. He reached up to fix it, but stopped himself at the last second. Something held his hand back.

He hadn't spoken to Mycroft since, well, he arrived. In fact, Mycroft hadn't contacted him at all, so John just sort of assumed he was away on government business.

Mrs. Hudson stepped up and placed the key in the lock. The door swing open with a click, and John stepped in.

Clouds of dust drifted upwards, and the scent of cleaning chemicals filled the room. John slowly walked up the stairs into their flat.

Their flat? No, just his flat.

The living room came into view and John was appalled. It was a mess of papers, junk, and chowder all mixed into one giant dump that was scattered throughout the flat. There was science equipment on the kitchen table, and a knife stabbed through the mantelpiece. His mind immediately jumped to robbers, then realized if someone had really ransacked the place, they would not leave all that junk behind.

"It's so messy, did someone..." John trailed off. His eyes had landed on the violin.

And suddenly, like water bursting through a dam, everything came back to him. He had lived here with Sherlock Holmes, world's only—and greatest—-consulting detective. And now Sherlock, his Sherlock, was dead. Because he had shot himself at Sherrinford.

"Oh, god, oh god!" John yelled, doubling over and holding his head. He sank to the floor, shaking. "He's dead...he's never coming back." he whispered. The meaning of the words finally hit him, and his brief fantasy shattered.

How could he have forgotten—no, not forgotten—chose to deny his friend's existence? Was it because he was just in shock and denial, or was it because he was too cowardly to face the harsh reality of the truth?

Mrs. Hudson kneeled down beside him, wincing as her hip protested. She didn't say anything, just merely proceeded to wrap him up in a hug.

"Why did he have to die, Mrs. Hudson? Why did he leave us?" John sobbed.

Mrs. Hudson sniffled. "Because he loved you."


	7. Lost To The Sea

"Do you miss him?"

John grunted, barely acknowledging his wife's existence. He'd started seeing Mary again. Most of the time she didn't say anything, just stood there and smiled reassuringly. But John liked it when she spoke. He missed her voice, the way her eyes would glow when she laughed.

He missed him too. He missed both of them. His wife, and his best friend, both mercilessly ripped from him, leaving him alone in this cold, cruel world.

No, that wasn't true. He had Rosie. He had Mrs. Hudson.

Sherlock had once said, _In saving my life, she conferred a value on it. It is a currency I do not know how to spend._ He did know, though, at the end. Sherlock died saving John and Mycroft. Mary's sacrifice was still alive in them.

John ran his hand over his chair, trying not to look up at the empty one across from him. Mary continued to wait, patiently, by the door. She never entered the flat though, as if it was a sacred space. In a manner of speaking, it was. It was the place for the desperate, the lonely, the ones with nowhere else to go. The place where two men went on their ridiculous adventures. But most importantly, it told the story of a broken solider and a heartless detective, coming together and completing each other in so many ways.

"I do." John admitted. Mary gave him a sympathetic smile. "Why don't you come on in?" Mary shook her head, but John already knew that she wouldn't.

"What are you going to do next?" Mary asked. John rubbed his face hard, messing up his hair as he did so. Rosie was downstairs with Mrs. Hudson. They knew, of course. Or at least Mrs. Hudson did. Lestrade, too, and probably the majority of Scotland Yard.

That just left Molly Hooper. John grimaced at the prospect of breaking the news to her. She had always been sweet on Sherlock, but after the emotional context incident...well, it was better to get it over with sooner rather than later.

"I need to tell Molly." John mumbled. He waited for Mary to reply, but she had disappeared.

Sighing, he stood up, stretching. Every joint in his body seemed to pop, he had been curled up in that chair for what seemed like hours. John slowly made his way towards the door, trying not to look at the flat. Every thing, from the science equipment to the lines of dust on the wall, reminded him of Sherlock and every glance brought a burst of pain within him, as if someone was slapping his heart.

John finally cleared the stairs, keeping his eyes away from the stretch of wall he and Sherlock had both leaned on, all those years ago, laughing about chasing cabs down London. It was also the place where John had officially moved in, thereby changing his life forever.

John reached up to grab his jacket, and caught sight of the coat hanger, empty except for that darn deerstalker hat. John realized with a pang of sadness that he did not know where Sherlock's coat or scarf was. After they had stolen the boat Sherlock had changed into the security guard's uniform, leaving his signature accessories to the sea. John wished he'd kept track of them, it would be comforting to be able to hold onto a piece of Sherlock. Alas, the deerstalker would have to do.

He opened the door and stepped out, as he had done with Sherlock many times before. Yet now there was only one set of footsteps. It felt quiet.

"Taxi!" John called, waving his hand. He'd better get his act together, because the next few hours were not going to be easy.


	8. Heroes Don't Exist

Molly fumed as she slammed down two test tubes, both filled with a yellowish murky water. It had been two days since...since that call, and Sherlock hadn't said a word.

"Arrogant arsehole." Molly grumbled. The pain of it was still fresh in her mind, as if it had just happened.

"I love you"

Without a word, the line had went dead. Molly, still processing what had just happened, dropped her phone into the sink with a clatter, and had fallen to the ground, crying.

She had always had a schoolgirl crush on Sherlock. He was handsome, intelligent, and his piercing blue-eyes seemed to see through everything. Molly had even kidded herself into thinking she could be good enough for him, but was proven wrong at that disastrous Christmas party. However, after Sherlock's Fall, he had asked her out for a day of crime-solving. But she was already engaged to Tom! And then when they broke it off, Sherlock was back on drugs. She learned a long time ago not to get her hopes up again, that they would just get crushed because she and Sherlock were evidently not meant to be.

So the call, as hard as it was for Sherlock, seemed even worse to Molly, because it gave her hope. Hope was a delicate and cruel thing, enticing the desperate, tantalizing the broken.

She hadn't gone to work that day. Hadn't even bothered to call in sick. Hadn't answered any of her calls, for that matter. For some strange reason, her boss hadn't even complained, just gave her a sympathetic look when she walked in this morning.

 _I love you_

Startled, Molly whipped around, but the room was empty and silent. For a moment, she could've sworn she saw a dark shadow outside her window, but then chided herself. She had imagined his voice, of course. That was the only possible explanation.

 _Goodbye  
_

This time she knew it was real. Molly turned back around to face the window again, and saw the familiar outline of a familiar coat, the collar flipped up.

"Sherlock?" Molly ran to the windowsill. What was he doing here? She threw the window open, and suddenly jumped back as the figure plummeted, falling four stories down.

"Sherlock!" Molly screamed, peeking her head out of the window. There was a balcony that was blocking her view. "No, no, no no." Molly moaned as she slammed it shut and ran out.

The elevator dinged and opened as she zipped out, panting, her footfalls beating lightly on the floor. She pushed the doors open and ran to the pavement, but collided with John Watson.

"John!" Molly exclaimed. "It's Sherlock! He—he..." She faltered. Peeking over John's shoulder, she saw that there was nothing on the street. No body, no blood. She was sure she had seen him, but it was as if he had just vanished.

Molly looked back towards John, whose face had gone white.

"You know already?" John asked.

"Know what?" Molly frowned. "He hasn't said anything since, you know, yesterday."

John began to tremble and Molly started to worry that he would fall over. She knew instantly something was wrong.

"What happened?" Molly said. There was a sinking sensation in her stomach, like the feeling you get before something bad happens.

"Sherlock...Sherlock..." John swallowed hard. "Molly, he's dead."

So that explained why he hadn't contacted her. And the ominous farewell from his ghost. And yet Molly still couldn't believe it.

"What?" Molly gaped. "How?"

"He has a sister. A secret sister, apparently. Her name is Eurus." Molly's jaw dropped. "She trapped us in her dungeon and forced us to play...games." John blinked hard. "They were hard, but especially torture for Sherlock. She told him that if he couldn't make you say 'I Love You' in two minutes, she would blow you up with bombs she had placed around your flat."

"Bombs!" Molly frantically looked around. "In my flat?"

John shook his head. "They weren't actually there, she just told us that, as an incentive." He continued on quietly. "You should've seen him afterwards, Molly...he was screaming things and smashing up the room, I was so terrified he was going to fall apart. It was vivisection, as he put it."

Molly hadn't realized she was crying until her sweater was wet with salty tears. John's eyes were red as well, and they both embraced each other, her head resting on his shoulder. The last thing they had said to each other, _I love you_...it was something straight out of a Shakespearean tragedy.

 _Why?_ Molly thought, anguished. _Why does my life have to be like this? It's not fair. It's not FAIR!_

The last three words came out as an angry scream. Nearby pedestrians gave her weird looks, but she didn't care. Sherlock Holmes wouldn't have cared. He would've ignored them.

But of course, there was no telling what he would or wouldn't do anymore, because he was dead.

After a moment they regained their composure a bit, enough for Molly to be able to form coherent words.

"How did he die?" Molly whispered.

John looked at her, pain on his face. "Eurus told him to shoot either myself or Mycroft. Mycroft told him to shoot me, in hopes it would make it easier for Sherlock to kill him instead. But at the last second, Sherlock...dumb, noble, brave Sherlock...he put the gun to his own head and..." John swallowed hard. "He died a hero, Molly. He died for his friend and his brother all I did..." he couldn't finish.

"Don't make people into heroes, John." Molly quoted, repeating the words of the sleuth. "Heroes don't exist, and even if they did, I wouldn't be one of them." She shook her head. "He was wrong, you know. Heroes do exist, and he was—is one of them."

John blew his nose. "It's just, first Mary and now Sherlock. My life is so fucked up." He remarked bitterly. After a moment, he took a deep breath. "There's all his stuff to go through, and of course the matter of Baker Street itself. We don't know if he had a will or not, it's not like last time. I'm just a bit overwhelmed, you know?"

Molly took his arm. "I know. After my dad died, my mum and I had to sort out all the legal matters. And then there was the preparations for the funeral, as well. John, if you ever need anything, I'm here."

"Thank you, Molly." John was grateful. His heart still hurt, but it was a little more bearable after talking with Molly. Pain shared was pain divided, and it was time to pick himself up and start living again. If there was one thing he had learned from Sherlock's previous death, it was that it was important not to let Sherlock's loss stop his own life.

"I have some things I need to do." John mumbled, more to himself than to Molly.

"Well then," Mary was back, this time wearing her red coat. "Get the hell on with it."

 **Author Note:**

 **I realized yesterday that the flat had technically been blown up in TFP, but since I already published the chapters I decided not to fix it. Because it's an AU, I'm taking the bomb out of the timeline, to alleviate complications and future headaches. I'm also planning to write up Mycroft's chapter(s) next, maybe Lestrade. Thanks again for all the reviews and follows!**

 **-Irene xx.**


	9. There Are No Ghosts

Mycroft sat in his chair, staring blankly into the darkness, a slice of uneaten cake besides him. Sherlock would laugh at him for abandoning his diet, but Sherlock wasn't here anymore.

He was dead.

A pang of grief shot through Mycroft as a fresh round of sobs rolled through him. He hated himself, it was all his fault. Five minutes unsupervised conversation between his sister and his brother's nemesis...and now he was gone. Gone forever, like his Uncle Rudi.

If it was any consolation, Eurus seemed distraught as well. Not only had she stopped communicating, she didn't pick up her violin or eat anything. Sherlock's death had rattled all of them.

Mycroft furiously dabbed at his eyes, before tossing the tissue to join the rest of them in a heap on the floor. Far away, a clock tower chimed midnight. He had already lost track of time. As soon as they had been rescued from Sherrinford and finished all the medical checks, Mycroft had excused himself from the police station and driven home, where he had sat and ate and cried and simply felt numb for the last...how long had he been here? He might've gotten up and moved a little, but honestly, Mycroft couldn't distinguish between what was real and what had happened inside his mind palace.

Rubbing his hands together, Mycroft attempted to sort out his feelings in a logical way, for the umpteenth time.

 _My brother shot himself in the head. How do I feel about that?_

 _He died saving John and I. How do I feel about that?_

 _I cried over his dead body. How do I feel about that?_

 _It's all my fault. If I hadn't been such an idiot, he would not have died. How do I feel about that?_

 _How do I feel about that?_

The question rang and echoed throughout his brain, and yet he could not fathom the answer. He had spent too long running away from his feelings, and now he was starting to regret it. What if the only way to truly move past your emotions was to experience them unabashedly? His heart was ruling—no, imprisoning his head.

The truth was, Mycroft had always felt a desire to protect his younger sibling, no matter what a twit he had been. Whenever he found Sherlock high, he had taken care of and saved all his lists. Every time. The little maroon notebook held more than drug lists and incoherent phrases. It represented Sherlock's trust in Mycroft, and that meant everything to him.

"How do you feel about it?" A sudden voice spoke up from the darkness. Mycroft jumped a foot, knocking the cake to the ground with a clatter. He fumbled with the light switch, turning it on to reveal Sherlock, sitting in the chair opposite him.

"Jesus, Sherlock!" Mycroft yelped, his thundering heart struggling to slow down. "You almost gave me a heart attack!"

"No, you almost gave yourself a heart attack." Sherlock countered, a smirk on his face. "I'm not real."

"Brother—" Mycroft choked on the word. He swallowed hard, sitting up a little straighter. "Why are you here?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, almost too familiarly. "Mycroft Holmes, you have been sitting here for the past two weeks, staring at a piece of cake you have no intention to eat and throwing used tissues into a filthy pile at the base of your chair, crying your eyes out over my death. It's clear you have no plan as to what to do. You're hoping my image will give you some direction."

Mycroft considered this. "I suppose."

"You need to visit Molly, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson, but most importantly John. There's also the matter of the funeral and the estate."

"Estate?" Mycroft asked. "You mean that tiny flat and all your junk inside?"

Sherlock grinned. "Yeah, that estate." There was a moment of silence, then Sherlock stood up, his coat and scarf and hair just as perfect as it had been in real life. "I best be going. You have some phone calls to make, don't you?"

Mycroft opened his mouth to answer, but Sherlock had already disappeared.

 **Author Note:**

 **Since John kept seeing Mary after she died, I thought it would be fitting for Mycroft to see Sherlock, as he was the person he loved most.**


	10. Confession

Molly wasn't looking forward to work.

Technically, that wasn't saying much because she worked in a morgue and talked to dead people, but it was going to be even worse today.

Because this time, one of the dead people was going to be her friend. And instead of him doing the talking, as he normally did, he would just be lying there on a cold slab as Molly...well, did her autopsy stuff.

As she unlocked the door to the morgue, she couldn't help but feel intimidated by what she was about to do. Yes, she had volunteered to do the examination, mainly because she needed to see him to believe the news, but also because Barts was essentially his home away from home. When he wasn't at Baker Street or out on a case, he was here, asking Molly to wheel out corpses. It never occurred to her that one day his would be the body that she would be wheeling out.

The gray lights flickered on above her, in a most ominous fashion, doing nothing to help her nerves. Molly strode over to the farthest stretcher, bracing herself for what was on the cart. She closed her eyes once, took a deep and opened them.

He looked like he could've been asleep. His suit was impeccably neat, his curls framing his face like they always did. In fact, it almost seemed like he was sleeping, except for the dried blood in his hair and the gaping hole in his chin.

"No, no, no." Molly whimpered, running back from Sherlock and falling down. The scalpel she was holding sliced into her wrist, but she only had one thought. She needed to get as far away as she could from him.

Staggering slightly, she picked herself off the ground and ran out the room. Molly hadn't called a cab, yet a black car pulled up beside her as she left the building. She didn't pay any attention to it until a man stepped out and grabbed her arm.

"Get off me!" She yelled, turning around to face her attacker, but quickly stopped, realizing it was Mycroft.

"Oh, hello Mycroft." Molly muttered, slightly embarrassed. "You gave me quite a scare."

"I do apologize." Mycroft replied. "What happened to your wrist?"

"I—" Molly looked down, noticing the cut for the first time. "I tripped and the scalpel was in my hand, I must've accidentally cut myself."

Mycroft nodded, his eyes still on the red line. "We'll need to get that cleaned up. Infection is a dangerous thing. You say you tripped?"

"I saw him." Molly said quietly. "He was laid out and there was blood everywhere and I couldn't do it. I just couldn't do it."

Mycroft put a reassuring arm on her shoulder. "I know this is hard, Molly. It's hard for me as well. But I need to take you to Baker Street. We're having a meeting."

ooOoo

Lestrade sat at Sherlock's desk, grief etched in every crevice of his face. He ran his hand over the wood absentmindedly, staring around the flat sadly. Mrs. Hudson sniffled into a handkerchief on the couch, a crying Molly curled up in her lap. Mycroft sat at the other end of the sofa, his eyes glistening. Last but not least, John rested in his chair, one hand white gripping his cane, the other clenched into a fist, glaring at Sherlock's empty seat across him, almost as if he was daring him to reappear.

There were two other people in the room, but not everybody could see them. First, Mary stood, as she always did, by the door, but her eyes were red and a tear dripped from her face. Then there was Sherlock, sitting in his chair, looking down at his feet only to glance up at Mycroft every so often.

"Are you going to get this thing started or what?" Sherlock demanded, waving at Mycroft. He stood up and cleared his throat.

"Well, um, guys." Mycroft started. Every word seemed alien in his mouth. "We need to uh..."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, finishing Mycroft's sentence for him. "Get all my shit sorted out."

"I'm not going to say that!" Mycroft cut back, earning him several concerned looks from his audience.

"Sorry?" John leaned forward.

"Uh, nothing." Mycroft tried for a tight grin but it came out more as a grimace. "First things first. We need to sort out my brother's estate. There's the matter of all his possessions, his money, or at least what little of it he had, and of course the flat itself. We also need to take care of the funeral, and what will happen to his..." He gave a meaningful look at Molly. "Body."

"Is that it?" Lestrade piped up, shifting in his chair to face Mycroft. "You summoned us all here to talk about funerals and estates?"

"Is there something else you were hoping to talk about?" Mycroft replied anxiously, sensing danger. He still couldn't quite understand what these goldfish were thinking. Emotions were so complicated.

"Course there bloody is!" John exploded. "Mycroft, he's your brother. He's my best friend. He's all our friend. We've been coping with this for two weeks. Two weeks, Mycroft! While Mrs. Hudson and I were trying to clean up the flat and Lestrade was solving the goddamn case, you were god-knows-where filing paperwork! And now you just waltz in here for the first time in weeks, and don't even bother to ask how we are? How we're holding up?"

"John, no." Mary warned, reaching his hand out towards him. John ignored her.

"Did you not even give a thought to how we would feel? Did you not even give a thought to your own brother? Molly had to—no, she _volunteered_ to slice up his dead corpse for the autopsy! Do you have any idea how hard that must've been? But I suppose Mycroft Holmes has a heart of stone, and he won't let himself feel anything for anyone, even his own dead little brother!"

"Don't...don't bring me into this." Molly pleaded. John took a deep breath. He immediately knew he had gone too far. He looked up at Mycroft, expecting him to be angry, but instead saw something much worse. The Iceman slumped his shoulders, as if he was deflating. He caught John's eyes and the only thing John could see in them was just blankness. Blankness and defeat.

"Tell them." Sherlock stated simply. "Tell them why you did it."

Mycroft took a deep breath, struggling to get his thoughts in order. Finally he opened his mouth. "John, you are not mistaken. It was foolish, cowardly of me to hide from the harsh reality and leave you all to cope with the situation by yourself. I was wrong to expect a warm welcome from you. Emotions are not something I am familiar with, but to tell you I did not anticipate this reaction would be a lie. I knew what I should've done, and I chose not to, but not for the reasons you think."

"'All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage.' I said these very words to my brother many years ago. I've repeated them so often in my head that I have almost come to believe them. Almost. John, you accuse me of not caring about Sherlock. But the fact is, I do care for him. Too much. And I chose to abandon you, his dearest friends, not because I was indifferent but because I was devastated and angry. Angry at my sister. Angry at him for taking his life. But mostly, angry at myself for letting it all happen. I needed to take the time to reflect on myself and my feelings before I could figure out what to do next. It was an unpleasant, yet crucial step and I do not regret it."

"I cried, John. I cried and sobbed and felt sadness and grief wash over me. You have experience dealing with feelings. I envy that. I didn't, for so many years, and now I seem to have lost the ability to handle it. I was afraid that if I spent too much time dwelling on his loss, it would destroy me. Do you know I still see him sometimes? He talks to me, too. It is destroying me, inside. So, when I called you all over here for this seemingly cold convocation, the reason was not because I didn't care, but for exactly the opposite. I was afraid I couldn't handle it. This is my way of mourning."

"It's okay, Mycroft." Mrs. Hudson got up slowly, gently sliding Molly off her lap. "We understand." She took his hands and he found himself clinging to her.

"Yeah, mate. We get it. It's hard. I loved him too." Lestrade walked over and patted Mycroft on the shoulder.

"I'm sorry." John shook his head. "I had no right to say that. Any of it."

Mycroft nodded. "It's not your fault. I don't blame you. If it's anyone's fault, it should be mine."

Molly shook her head. "No, Mycroft. It's not. He chose to save you and John. That was his choice, and his alone. I'm devastated, but I'm also so proud of him. He was so brave." She wiped her eyes. "We shouldn't feel ashamed of ourselves. If anything, Sherlock deserves to be remembered. We can't let his death stop our lives. He wouldn't have wanted that. We owe him that much."

"That's right." Sherlock sighed sadly. He walked over to Mycroft, reaching his hand out but unable to touch him. "Trust in others, Mycroft. Listen to them."

"I will, brother dear."

 **Author Note:**

 **I'm sorry about the long wait! I really wanted to spend some time working on Mycroft's perspective, because I think there's a lot I can do with his character right now. This chapter was probably my favorite to write, as I had a lot of fun figuring out what exactly Mycroft's confessive speech was going to entail. There'll be more of this story later on, so stay tuned. Thanks for all the follows and support!**

 **-Irene xx**


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